


The Catch

by havisham



Category: Captain America (2011), Captain America (Comics), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bathroom Sex, Betrayal, Cold War, Homophobia, Id Fic, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Porn With Plot, Spies & Secret Agents, The Bagman's Gambit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And in a bathroom stall off the National Mall /  How we kissed so sweetly / How could I refuse a favor or two?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU based on the Decemberists’ song, "[The Bagman’s Gambit](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmnehTpbtiY)", and takes place in a universe where Steve Rogers didn’t quite make it as Captain America, Bucky Barnes isn’t _quite_ the Winter Soldier, and they end up on opposite sides anyway. 
> 
> (Basically, it's smut with its hat on.) 
> 
> It also uses a mix of comics and movie canon, so buckle your seat-belts and hold on tight. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

_“We could use men like you. Honest. Moral. Upright. Just. Men who love their country. Ah. You do love your country, don’t you?”_

_“Absolutely, sir.”_

_“You have no family? No wife at home? No girlfriend?”_

_“No, sir.”_

_“You did some war-work, didn’t you? That’s where you got your... condition.”_

_“Yes, sir. It was not a success.”_

_“Doesn’t matter. We could use a men like you, Rogers. We really could.”_

 

****

* * *

It was almost seven years to the day since he moved to Washington D.C., and he still hadn’t gotten used to it. He wasn’t a country-bumpkin, before -- Brooklyn was plenty busy -- but things were different here. In Washington, everyone, from the President on down, had the most pressing problems. There’s this senator from Wisconsin -- McCarthy was his name -- stirring things up, convinced that there were Reds around every corner.

Washington was a fearful place, these days. And even the air itself left a bad taste in Steve’s mouth. 

He kept his head down, didn’t make eye-contact with anyone. It was easy to blend in with the crowd, with his brown hat and tan coat, and gray slacks, and and dark leather shoes tapping on the sidewalk. He looked like everyone else. Still, he hunched over, shrank to accommodate the crowd around him. His pace was slow, measured, as he went up the steps to the office building where he worked. He took the elevator down to the basement, and then the stairs to the sub-basement. Rita, the secretary and the archive’s guard-dog, didn’t look up when Steve came through the door. She just waved him in, hands flabby and stained from years in the typing pool. She went back to her magazine. 

Elizabeth Taylor’s violet-eyed stare followed him across the room from the cover of _Photoplay_. 

His desk was overflowing with papers. Steve adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and went to work. He stayed at his desk for four hours, had lunch, and then returned. It was already dark when he emerged from the building, the street lights lit. He went home, had dinner, and went to sleep. 

Rinse and repeat. 

 

* * * 

 

It was lonely, spending nights alone in his tiny tenth floor apartment in the seedier end of Colombia Heights. He was restless, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t listen to the radio. He was bored enough to think about doing his laundry a few days early this week.

As he emptied out the pockets of one of his suits, a slip of paper fell out onto the floor. He picked it up -- it was cream-colored, cardstock paper, fainted scented. He couldn’t remember where he had gotten it from -- 

Oh. That function at the French Embassy. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, but through a string of coincidences, he had been, lingering on the edges of the ballroom, waiting for his superiors to dismiss him. A man approached, a grey-eyed foreigner, dark, with a face that was all sharp angles. He wasn’t from not from any place Steve could recognize. He sized Steve up with long stare, and said -- “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” 

Steve’s champagne flute trembled in his hands. He said, “I don’t think so.” 

“No?” And he looked at Steve, more deeply than anyone usually did, like he knew a thing or two about him. “From the war, maybe...”

Well, vets, especially wounded ones, were a dime a dozen in Washington. Your eyes slid off them easily after a while. Steve never gotten a chance to serve, not really, but he was wounded, in a way (had a certificate to prove it) and so he stiffened and stared down at this stranger, who was frowning at him like he should _remember_ something about him. 

Just then, someone behind the man bumped into him, and like a domino falling, he pushed into Steve. Steve’s champagne flute fell from his grasp and shattered on the tile floor. In between profusely apologizing to anyone who would listen, and trying his best to mop the broken shards, Steve didn’t notice that the man he had been speaking to had disappeared. 

A short time later, Steve stumbled out of the (overheated, stifling) hall into the cooler (but still muggy) air outside. At least he could breathe freely here. And when he was thinking these things, he was startled to feel a touch on his shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rogers,” said the stranger. 

“Wait, how...?” They hadn’t been introduced. But the stranger had gone as quickly as he had come, leaving Steve completely befuddled. 

There was an address on the card.

Steve stared at it, letting his fingers run up and down its crisp edges. Of course, common sense told him to throw the thing away. Better yet, burn it. He didn’t need this kind of trouble, not with how things were now. 

He should get to sleep, and go into work early. There was another assignment coming in soon, and the more time he had to prepare, the better. He should stay in. 

Yes, that was the right thing to do. And Steve always tried to do the right thing. 

The night stretched out before him, closed to all other possibilities. 

 

* * * 

 

The address took him to a part of the city he had never been before, a long way away from the strict beeline he had always followed of work, home, and back to work again. Getting there, he’d gotten lost, twice, and ended up in places that he wouldn’t have stepped foot in, in the daylight hours. 

But finally, he found it, in a quiet neighborhood close to the river. If he breathed in hard enough, he could smell the water, the faint fishiness of it. The front-door was locked from the inside, and because he had come too far to stop now, he ducked into the alley next to it. He sidestepped the heaps of trash and came to a heavy wooden door with a narrow slit at the top of it. 

He knocked, tentatively at first, and then more confidently. The slit opened, and a pair of beady eyes looked down at him. A voice behind the door growled, “Whadda want?” 

“Ah. Hello. I --” Steve held up the card, visible in the dull yellow light of the stoop. “May I come in?” 

There was a long moment when he was sure the guard would say no. But instead, the door swung open and Steve came in. It wasn’t much brighter inside than it had been in the alley, and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. A white-suited waiter led him to a booth, and asked for his order. And if he was disappointed by it (only a glass of ice water -- with a slice of lemon) he didn’t let on, only nodding and melting back into the dimness of the bar. 

Steve looked around, curious about his surroundings. It was an ordinary looking bar, nothing fancy about it as far he could tell. There was a long wooden bar and barkeep, a few patrons on the stools, and a few more in the booths, like Steve. There was small stage on right, apparently not in use that night. A normal enough place. So why all this secrecy? 

His drink came, and Steve played with the straw, wondering if he should send it back for something a bit stronger. He couldn’t get drunk, of course, but still... As he was pondering this, someone slipped into the booth, and sat in front of him. It was a man -- a young man, maybe a few years younger than Steve himself -- with wavy brown hair and the brightest pair of blue eyes Steve had ever seen. 

The man smiled at him, his cupid’s bow lips pressed into a charming smile. His face was a little too thin to be handsome, and there were faint lines on it. Whether they were laugh lines or frown lines, Steve couldn’t tell. 

He looked at Steve like he had known him forever. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. 

“Sorry,” Steve repeated, confused. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” 

The smile didn’t leave the stranger’s face. He said tranquilly, “There’s no mistake.” 

And he turned and gestured to the waiter and spoke in a rapid undertone. The waiter gave him a quick nod, and disappeared. 

Steve spilled a few coins on the table and began to get up. The man’s face fell. He scrambled to get up too. “Where are you going?,” he demanded. 

Steve said, hurriedly, “Look, I don’t want to offend you, mister --”

“You can call me James.” And he followed Steve out of the bar. Steve took a quick look around the room and saw, for the first time, that there were no women in it. That the patrons were … Steve’s face began to burn. Stupid! Of course, it was obvious what this place was. If there should be a police raid and he should be caught here...! 

Goodbye government job, goodbye pension. 

Shaking his head, Steve shouldered James out of the way, and headed for the door. He didn’t care that James was saying something to him and he didn’t notice him slip a few dollars into the guard’s hands as Steve blew past them both, and was out the door. 

Outside, muggy heat closed around him like a fist. Steve wasn’t sure -- didn’t know which way he had come, but he struck off in a direction anyway. He’d find a bus stop or maybe hail a cab when his head was clear. What he needed to do now was walk. Concentrate on that. 

One foot in front of the other. 

But as he made his way down the street, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Swallowing a surge of fear within him, Steve picked up his pace. But then so did his follower. They walked to the end of the street, and Steve turned. The person behind him did too. They went on like for many long moments. Sweat began to bead on Steve’s forehead. 

More and more, the evening seemed like a nightmare. He was going to get caught. He just knew it... 

Quickly, he darted into an alleyway, and whirled around to confront his follower. “What do you want?” he said. James raised his hands, palms forward. “Whoa, whoa!” he said. “Calm down! It’s just me.” 

“You _followed_ me?” 

“You left the club so quickly,” said James, his voice betraying him, desperation sneaking in. “We could have talked.” 

“Look, I don’t _want_ to --” 

“Shut up.” James crowded him in, forcing Steve to hit the brick wall of the alleyway with a surprised oof. A policeman on his beat walked past them -- slowing as he went past. James’ face showed white and sick in the darkness of the alleyway, his body tense against Steve. _Why, he’s frightened,_ Steve realized. 

And that was the reason, tenuous thought it was, that Steve kept quiet as the policeman passed. Once he was out of sight and out hearing, Steve turned again to James and said, quietly, “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?” 

James watched him for a long moment before nodding. “Yes. I do. And I knew I could trust you, from the first time I saw you.” 

Steve didn’t know what to say to that. What he wanted to say, though, was -- _how do you know that?_

Steve was interrupted by James, who leaned and kissed him. For a frozen moment, Steve couldn’t quite breathe. His hands seemed to work on their own accord, taking James up and towards him. James’ lips were dry and slightly cracked, he tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, and faint trace of spearmint gum. His fingers, blunt and roughed, brushed gently against Steve’s face.The kiss was over in a flash, but it lingered on Steve’s lips.  
Dazed, Steve leaned back against the wall, his glasses (and thus the whole world) slightly askew. 

James retreated, saying in a low voice that he would see Steve again. _Soon._ It sounded as much like a threat as it did a promise. He melted back into the dark, and left Steve breathing slow and shakily, wishing with all his might that he didn’t wish for _more._


	2. Chapter 2

He read reams and reams of documents, until his eyes blurred and the words broke up into jagged little letters, with no rhyme or reason between them. Sometimes, the files that came across his desk would be stamped CLASSIFIED, in a bold red letters, but they were usually nothing of interest to anyone. Just little secrets. 

Impatiently, he put down the file that he had been trying to reading for an half-hour and pushed it away in frustration. He looked around his small, windowless office, and thought, not for the first time, what he had done to deserve this. 

It had been weeks since that night -- _since James_ , and his mind just wouldn’t settle on anything. 

Steve had always known -- had always suspected -- that there was something off with him, something that didn’t quite _fit._ His ill-health as a child (and as an adolescent, and as an adult) was an obvious explanation, but there always more to it than that. And bullies always seemed to sense it too. He couldn’t count the times he would come limping home, having been beaten up by one bully or another. 

His mother, when she had been alive, would cluck over him, smoothing back his fair hair and cleaning up the blood from his face. She would sigh, cool air fluttering on his too-hot and smarting face. “Sometimes, Steve, you have to learn that discretion is the better part of valor.” 

At Steve’s confused frown, she clarified, gently, “Sometimes it’s all right to run away.” 

Steve shook his head. He loved his mother, but that wasn’t right. For one thing, bullies could run too, and faster than he could. And for another... He said, “You start running, and you can never stop.” And something in his mother’s face wavered, and she had hugged him so tightly that he felt like he couldn’t quite breathe. She didn’t even care that he got blood on her good blue dress. 

But Steve’s mother was now more than twenty years dead. His weaknesses couldn’t hurt her anymore. 

With groan, Steve buried his face in his hands. 

“What’s wrong, Steve? Not feeling well?” Rita stood at his door, carrying with her a box of papers. 

Steve pulled himself together. Or tried to. He managed to say, “I’m fine, thank you, Rita.” 

Rita shrugged, her glasses catching in the light. “Good. Here’s another load for you.” 

He got out early nonetheless, feeling drained. Halfway home, he remembered that today was the day he was to go grocery-shopping. Dutifully, he got off on his stop and walked a little way to the corner shop. The bell on door rang as he came in and Mr. Lambert, the owner gave him a little wave. 

Steve wandered down the aisle and was wondering if he _really_ wanted Wonder Bread again this week when he bumped into someone who stood in his way. “Excuse me,” he murmured, distracted. 

James turned around and shrugged. “I don’t mind,” he said, giving him a wicked grin. 

Steve stopped short, and knew that his face was reddening. He walked deliberately in front of James, and turned the corner into the canned foods aisle. Blindly, he picked the closest thing he could reach -- a can of sliced pears -- while behind him, James loudly wondered who in their right mind would want to buy canned spinach. 

“It tastes like toxic seaweed,” he said, carelessly tossing a can of it into Steve’s basket. Steve paused, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, James was in front of him, too close for comfort. 

Steve blurted out, “What’s wrong with you? Haven’t you heard of Popeye?” 

James shook his head, laughing a little. “Guess not.” 

“You’re missing out,” Steve said, as James walked beside him. “See, he’s a sailor, and when he eats spinach, he can do great feats of strength.” 

“A super sailor,” said James, with a side-eyed look at Steve. 

Steve ignored it. “Something like that.” 

James was content to watch Steve finish his shopping. Once Steve had paid Mr. Lambert, James picked up one of the grocery bags and waited for Steve to lead on. Grabbing the other bag, Steve made his way out the door and towards home, James following behind him. 

Going in, he stopped James from getting on the elevator. “It stops working between the fifth and sixth floor. Then you have to call the building supervisor, and then they get out the ladders and you have to shimmy out between the doors. It only works if the person is pretty skinny, like you.” 

James looked at him, eyes alight. “Is that right?” 

Steve found himself smiling. “Sure.” 

The climb to Steve’s floor left James winded. He leaned against Steve, as if he would topple over without him. 

When they reached Steve’s door, he fumbled in his pockets before James took the grocery bag from him. He opened the lock and hesitated. After a long moment, he said, politely, “Would you like to come in? I think I have coffee.” 

James opened his mouth and then closed it again. “All right.” 

Steve’s coffee tended on to be on the burned side, but James managed to drink it down in a few gulps. “No milk? No sugar?,” asked Steve anxiously, as James shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, looking faintly sick. 

“All right.” Steve sat opposite of James, resting his hands on the dinner table. “I have some questions for you.” 

“Go right ahead.” 

Steve rattled off his questions, in machine-gun fashion. “Who are you? Why are you following me? What do you know about me? What were you so afraid of, that night? Do you really need my help?” 

James blinked. “I think I’m going to need more coffee.” He held out his empty mug for Steve to take and fill up again. 

 

* * * 

 

His name was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was an Army brat, raised on Army bases all over, alone in the world except for his father and little sister. Then, his father died, before the war. They had separated him from his sister -- he had never seen her again. 

And he had -- 

He was -- 

Calmly, James said, “I was trained in covert operations. By the time I was sixteen, I was sent overseas and I was killed.” 

Steve’s mouth was very dry. “You look alive to me.” 

James looked at him. For the first time since they had met, there was no flirtation in his glace, no calculation. He looked flat, all the life gone out of him. “They brought me back.” 

“Are you a spy?” Steve paused. “For the Soviets, I mean?” 

“I know what you mean.” And without him noticing it, James stood and had come closer to him, and was standing over him. Steve got up too, slowly. Standing, he was a little shorter than James, and little broader too. James cast his eyes down, looking at Steve through his lashes. “If I were to say yes, what would you do?” 

Steve tried not to stare at James’ lips, they were pressed tight, and yet still so -- 

He tried to answer honestly. “What could I do? You were seen with me, coming in my house. I would be --” 

James touched his face. His hands were cool against Steve’s skin. He _shouldn’t --_

“Did you like it, when I kissed you?” 

Steve felt his cheeks heat up. Again. “I was taken aback. I’ve never been kissed by a man before.” _Or very many women,_ but James didn’t need to know that. 

“Would you like to do it again?” 

Steve should say no. He should tie James up (his stomach dropped at the thought, _not_ like that) and call the police and wash his hand of this whole business. He should, he should, he _should._

Instead, he kissed James with everything he had. All his loneliness, his frustration, he poured into that kiss. James gasped into his mouth, his hands like a vise on Steve’s, anchoring against him. Steve found that he wanted -- he _wanted_ to push James down, and fuck him, right there on the kitchen floor. But he was hampered by not actually knowing -- _how_. 

James’ voice whistled his ear, breathy and hot. “Do want to do it here or in your bed?”  
“I want --”  
“Tell me what you want.”  
“You, all of you.” 

And James’ eyes were very wide and very blue, and his lips were very red, and his hands were very strong and very clever. 

They didn’t make it to Steve’s bed. 

Steve struggled to take his shirt off, to get his pants -- _off._ He noticed, dimly, that James had only loosened his collar. But -- 

“Jesus!” Steve said as James spat in his hand and took Steve’s cock in hand. Steve would have never take the Lord’s name in vain, but he was doing so many of the things he would _never_ do -- James’ hands were slow, but built a pace, going fast and faster until Steve came, his face crimson with embarrassment. His voice sounded broken, even to himself, as he said, _“J-James...”_

James leaned in and kissed him, and Steve fell into him, almost, in his eagerness to be close. “They used to call me something else,” James said when he pulled away, leaving Steve aching with _want._

Steve said, very intelligently, “Huh?” 

“At Camp LeHigh, where I grew up, they used to call me Bucky.” James rubbed his temples and grimaced. “James was always my dad.” 

The thought came to Steve suddenly. James was a spy, a Soviet agent. James was irredeemable. But Bucky -- Bucky could be his. Bucky could be _saved._ To be fair, this was not exactly a train of thought that made a whole lot of sense.

“Bucky,” Steve tried to concentrate on that, though he was watching James undress more than a little avidly. “I like that.” 

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t.” 

And James was naked before him, crouched down so Steve could barely see that his body was scarred in more ways than Steve could have thought a body could be. What had happened to him, who had done this to him? Steve’s fingers traced a line of scars that led from James’ -- _Bucky’s_ \-- shoulder blades to his chest. 

James leaned back against the wall, and looked at him, a small smile on his face. Steve leaned forward, and kissed James’ shoulder-blade. Slowly, he worked his way down James’ chest, to his stomach (slightly concave), and to his hips, that were sharp and jutting. 

Steve paused when he came to James’ cock, engorged and red. He had... Well, he had _ideas_ , certainly, as to what to do now -- he had never done it, had never had it done to him, but... 

He looked up, catching James’ eyes. James bit his bottom lip, and for the first time, he looked unsure. 

Decision made, Steve’s lips kissed the tip of James’ cock. After a long moment of hesitation, he took James’s hardening cock into his mouth. Taking shallow breaths, Steve took James’ cock deeper and deeper. James thrusted once, cautiously. And again. And then again, wilder. Steve’s instincts told him suck, hollow his cheeks out and suck and so he did, picking up the urgency from James’ pace. He did this, his eyes open and scanning James’s face. James’s eyes were half-shut, his mouth open. He caught Steve looking, and thrust harder. 

Steve’s instincts abandoned him when James came. He spat out the come that filled his mouth, pulling away quickly. But still, it splattered over his chin and onto his neck, dribbling down his chest. Steve felt something beyond embarrassment, an emotion that was brick-red and heavy. He was pulling away, hands on his face when James reached out for him. 

He was laughing, quiet little chuckles of pure amusement. And before Steve could get away, James kissed him, and dragging his tongue slowly across Steve’s face, Steve’s body. 

Steve closed his eyes, for a moment -- only a moment. When he opens them again, James was up and getting dressed, frowning slightly as he buttoned down his shirt. He looked up to see Steve staring at him. He said, “Got a cigarette?” 

Steve said, “I don’t smoke.” 

“Never mind, I found one.” He then looked for a match, and when he couldn’t find that, he went around to the kitchen and lit the cigarette on the stove. He came out again, and stood at the doorway, leaning against it. 

Steve, suddenly conscious of his nakedness, began to cast around for his clothes, as James watched with interest. Steve finally found his shirt, and put it on, unbuttoned. He stared back at James. 

“So. What’s the catch?” 

James looked blank. “What catch?” 

Steve shook his head, suddenly bone-weary. But James was speaking, breathing out smoke, giving the apartment a hellish aspect. Steve coughed, meaningfully, but James went on, heedless. “You know, I’d like to see the Smithsonian. Wouldn’t you? I’ve been living here for ages, and I’ve never been. I’d like to see those old fossils.” 

Steve ruffled his hair, and licked his lips. James sucked on his cigarette, and moved toward the door, leaving a cloud of smoke in his wake. 

“I guess?”

“Good. Two weeks’ time, meet me on the steps, 10:30 sharp. Bring the files.” 

He closed the door quietly behind and was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

It was two more weeks of hell. 

Steve shoved the papers into his briefcase and told Rita that he was taking an early lunch. She put down her magazine in surprise. “But what if the boss comes down?” 

Impatiently, Steve put on his hat, and struggled to put on his raincoat. “Mr. Phillips has better things to do that bother with me, Rita. If he does come down, tell him that I had a family emergency.” 

Slowly, she said, “You want to me to lie for you?” 

“Yes.” 

“I can do that.” She went back to her magazine. 

****

* * *

 ****

It was raining, a steady pour that neither lightened nor worsened as the day went on. Even with a raincoat and umbrella, Steve could feel moisture trickling into his shirt collar, as he walked down the National Mall. There was no one waiting on the steps of the Museum of Natural History at 10:35 A.M. Discouraged, Steve waited a few minutes more before going in. He paid his ticket and checked in his coat and briefcase. 

There was sharp whistle that cut cleanly though the quiet of the museum. Steve looked up, and who could be leaning comfortably against the marble balustrade, but James, wearing that half-smile, half-smirk that had become so familiar. 

When they were together at last, Steve confessed, “I thought you wouldn’t come.” 

James made a face. “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never been before.” 

They spent the next hour wandering the museum, avoiding the usual flock of schoolchildren and teachers, as best as they could. They both agreed that there was something deeply unsettling about the dioramas. Steve wished he could spend more time with the whales (it was bizarre and peaceful, those huge creatures floating serenely above his head) while James liked the dinosaurs. 

“They got a nice set of teeth,” he said, giving Steve a sharp smile that made his heart beat a little bit faster in his chest. 

Eventually, they became weary of the sights, and started to argue over what they should see next. Steve wanted to see the gemstones and minerals and James … 

“I gotta pee.” He started off down a set of stairs, to the museum basement. For the lack of anything better to do, Steve followed along. The men’s restroom James wanted to go to was in an out-of-the-way place, completely deserted. James disappeared into it, and Steve waited outside. 

And waited. 

James was taking a long time.

Steve checked his watch. He took another long drink of water from the water-fountain. The door of the bathroom rattled and opened, James poked his head out. Curious, Steve asked, “Are you done?” 

James gestured to him. “C’mere.” 

“What --” 

_“C’mere.”_

Steve was pulled into restroom. James kicked in the doorstop, jamming the door. He pushed Steve against the door, the wood scraping painfully at his back. The doorknob dug at Steve’s hips, and a little cry of surprise escaped his lips (and was quickly muffled by James’s hand.) 

James, his face hovering close to Steve’s, said, “What _took_ you so long?” 

Steve took a long ragged breath and said, “I thought -- I thought you were peeing.” 

“No,” James was leaning close, “I was waiting for you. To come in here and fuck me.” 

Steve felt like he had swallowed a boulder. “To fuck you. To _fuck_ you?” 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t wanted to. From day one.” 

Well. From day _two_ , at least. But even so, Steve didn’t bother to deny it. Instead, he said, “I -- I don’t know how.” 

James laughed. “I’ll show _you_.” 

He pulled Steve towards one of the stalls, and pushed the seat cover down, and sat Steve down on it. Together, they fumbled to unbuckle Steve’s belt, and pull down his pants. Steve hid his blushing face against the nape of James’s neck. Down went his underwear (Steve thanked God that he’d thought to wear boxers that day) and puddled against his ankles. James got on his knees, his hands squeezed Steve’s thighs, his fingernails digging into the flesh. 

James arched up and Steve reached down, and they met somewhere in between, in the sweetest of kisses. It was so sweet that Steve forgot, momentarily, about anything else at all. It made Steve’s jaw ache and his eyes smart, and something in his heart tilted and broke. 

James pulled away first, and licked his lips. 

Steve felt the loss, and reached out. His fingers pressed down on the side of James’s mouth. James opened it, his eyes never leaving Steve’s. “Bucky,” Steve said, because that was the only word in the world that made sense to him. James made a face, and kissed him quiet. 

****

* * * 

Steve rubbed his Vaseline anointed fingers together. “Huh,” he said, thoughtfully.   
James huffed impatiently. “I haven’t got all day, you know.” 

****

* * * 

Steve bit the back of James’s neck. He wanted to leave a mark, he _needed_ to leave a mark. James shuddered, arching against him as they worked to find their own rhythm, the logic of their own bodies. James was swearing quietly, a slew of soft dirty words, some in languages that Steve couldn’t even recognize.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Steve felt his heart skip a beat. He had his one arm across James’s chest, and the other clutching the brass railing of the stall. James slipped out of Steve’s grasp, and quickly began to dress. Steve scrambled to do the same. But as he was buttoning up his shirt, he felt a cold slap of air against his hot skin. The small window over the stall next to theirs was open, and James was gone. 

Steve dressed quickly -- he checked the mirror and found that he looked very much like he had done that morning, just slightly more rumpled. There was no one outside the door, once Steve managed to get it open again. 

He made his way to the coat check and collected his belongings. The sun was out by the time he got outside, and it was almost unbelievable that there had been a storm just a few hours ago. It was summer time weather. 

James was waiting outside, sprawled out near the bottom of the stairs. Somewhere in between leaving Steve and coming here, he had lost his hat and coat. He smoked his cigarette leisurely, and didn’t look up when Steve came to stand next to him. Without a word, Steve set down his briefcase, and walked on ahead. 

It was almost a two years and a day before they saw each other again.


	4. Chapter 4

The furor over the missing files missed Steve’s head, and landed on the level above him. To his own surprise, he was promoted once, and then again. He got an office with a window that looked out to a small park. He got Rita to go with him, though she had her own girl now to run errands. She threatened to retire every six months or so, but she never made good on it. 

One morning, while brushing his teeth, Steve found a gray hair on his temple. 

 

*** * ***

Steve had gained reputation of being dependable. Trustworthy. Honest. There was just something so guileless about those somber blue eyes. Up, up he rose among the ranks. He was a good man. 

*** * ***

He moved to a small white house, in the suburbs, a Cape Cod-style house with box shrubs in front, and dark purple clematis that grew on white trellises. 

He was content, if not exactly happy. 

One night, he woke to the door-bell ringing. Sleepy-eyed and resentful at the intrusion, he opened the door. James stood in his front steps, thinner than before, and more hagrid, but -- here. Alive. Without asking any questions, Steve pulled him in, and locked the door behind him. 

James -- _Bucky_ \-- had been on the run for years now, run ragged. 

Steve knew the story -- it had been in all the newspapers, the murder of an plainclothes police officer, right on the steps of the Capitol. Steve had seen the pictures, of the suspect -- of a lean and narrow face and cold eyes. It couldn’t be James -- but -- it was, Steve didn’t want to believe it, even though the files were in front of him.

In the end, the investigation had resulted in no leads, and the case had cooled to the point of freezing. The policeman’s family had been paid off, there was nothing else for them to hope for. No justice. 

James had disappeared for so long after that that Steve could almost convince himself that he was dead, and the past along with him. But the past never stayed buried, and stood shivering in Steve’s front hall. James looked underfed and fragile, his hair unkempt and long, his face obscured by a wild beard. 

It was far too late to go back. It had been too late for a long time now. 

Steve led him to the bathroom, and drew him a bath. James undressed, with no flicker of modesty in his eyes. He let Steve shave him, didn’t flinch as the wicked long cutthroat razor (an heirloom, belonging to Steve’s father, and his grandfather before him) skimmed the deep hollows of his throat. 

Steve left James to his own devices (but he took the razor with him) and brought back fresh towels for him, and pair of pajamas. James discarded the the pajama top right away, and followed Steve to the kitchen. Steve sat him down at the table. 

Steve started to boil water to make coffee. Catching James shift nervously in his seat, Steve said, “It’s instant, even I can’t mess this up.” 

****

* * * 

James was quiet when they climbed the steps to Steve’s bedroom. They sat on Steve’s bed, which was almost too narrow to hold them both. Even in the dimness of the half-lit room, Steve could see that James had new scars, new places where hurt lingered. Steve touched every scar, his hands, his mouth traced them. “Don’t go back,” he said, afterwards. “We could go...”  
Here, his imagination failed him. “Anywhere. Escape, somewhere.” 

Then, inspiration struck, and he snapped his fingers in triumph. “We could go to Rio.” 

“Too hot.” And James shrugged, his shoulders thin as rails. “Don’t worry about me. They’d never be able to catch me.” He smiled, sharp as knives. And he leaned in, hands in a spider-like grasp on Steve’s stomach, and kissed him. Steve pulled him closer, on top of him. 

“Bucky, please.” 

James laughed, “Didn’t I tell you that no one calls me that anymore?” 

“Only I do.” 

“Only you do.” 

****

* * * 

It was later when James turned to him, suddenly curious again. “Tell me about this,” he said, fingering the needle prints on Steve’s skin that had never really healed, from the place Doctor Erskine’s serum had gone in. Steve caught James’s hand and tangled their fingers together and considered.

He said, “There’s little enough to tell. I was picked out and told that if this experiment was successful, I would be the first in a line of Super-Soldiers, meant to save the world from Hitler and the like. It was top-top secret. Which is why, of course, you know about it.” 

James tilted his head, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Of course.” 

Steve went on, bluntly, “It didn’t work. There was something wrong. Or maybe what Erskine proposed wasn’t even possible. Yes, I grew a little taller, became a little broader, but that was it. In the end, I was a failed project. Inert.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t call you _inert_...” 

“Ha.” 

“But Erskine was murdered just after that, wasn’t he? Before he could fix whatever went wrong.” 

“He was murdered, and there were no supersoldiers. Just me.” 

“What’d you do for the rest of the war?” 

“Paperwork.” And then, it was Steve who turned away. 

 

*** * ***

 

When Steve came home from work the next day, he found James curled up on the couch in the living room, with the radio playing “Blue Skies” softly in the background. James was still wearing the pajama bottoms from the day before, and had managed to dig up a battered old tee-shirt of Steve’s, with the words U.S. Army printed on it.

As quietly as he could, Steve snuck in and turned the radio off. 

James’ eyes snapped open. For a second, he looked blank, tensed for anything. But then there came recognition, and he gave Steve a small smile. 

“Hi,” he said, pushing the hair from his eyes.

“Hi.” It occurred to Steve that he had never seen James in so normal a situation as taking an afternoon nap.

James sat up and stretched. He gave a bone-cracking yawn and said, “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?” 

Dinner was supposed to frozen, but James took one look at the stack of frozen dinners in Steve’s deep freeze and shoved them back in. Exasperated, he said, “Don’t you know how to cook?” And without any more discussion, he began to open and shut cupboards at random, taking out bottles, cans and boxes. Then he turned back to the fridge, and pulled out an half-forgotten roast, and some withered vegetables. He drafted Steve into chopping them up, as he took charge of roast. 

They worked in companionable silence for a while, before the telephone ran. Steve went to get it, and James followed him, leaning against the wall, watching as Steve wrangled with his boss. 

When he was finished, he caught James watching. 

“Sorry,” Steve said, “he doesn’t usually call me at home.” 

“Something big happening?” 

Steve’s answer was vague. “Something’s always happening, somewhere.” 

Dinner was quiet. Steve washed up, and James slipped out. 

When the last of the dishes were drying on the rack, Steve wandered out to the backyard, not really expecting James to still be there. But he was, smoking a cigarette. The dull red light of his cigarette end flared briefly before James crushed it out. “I have to go back.” He said this dully, matter-of-fact. 

“Why?” 

James gave him a brief, unreadable look. “I have to.” 

“Bucky. _James_ , you could deflect. Well. Deflect _back_.” 

“No,” James shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand. I have people …” 

Steve paused. It had never occurred to him that James might have someone else, though come to think of it, the very assumption had been absurd. How could he assume that he had all of James’s heart, when they went months and years without each other? 

(Or that he could be an assignment, essentially, with no importance in James’ life at all. But Steve strank back from that thought, almost bodily.) 

“Do you have, uh, a wife?” He couldn’t help asking.

“It’s not what you think.” James was coming closer to him, and Steve stepped out into the grass to avoid him. The backyard was his favorite place. He’d keep things simple. A tall cedar wood fence blocked the neighbor’s view, and lilac bushes buffeted the corners of the house. The grass was still springy, and slightly wet from the dew. The sky was cloudy, there was no moon. He closed his eyes and _wished_ \-- 

He felt the impact before James even touched him. 

James bore down on him, and spat out a quick flurry of words, “I’ll put it into words you’ll _understand._ If I go, then anyone who ever spoke to me more than once will be -- _adversely affected._ No one will be safe, and _you_ \--” They grappled silently, each in deadly earnest. Steve rolled back and punched James. 

A trickle of blood appeared on the corner of his mouth. 

_“Fuck!”_ James pulled away, his hands wiping away the blood. They were both panting, staring at at each other as if they were strangers. At that moment, they _were_ strangers. Steve’s mind whirled with blinding, painful thoughts. _Who is this man? Has he ever told me the truth?_

“I’ve _always_ told you the truth!” said James, as if reading his thoughts. 

Steve reached out to him, guilt stricken and sick. “Bucky, you lie for a living.” 

James flinched away, but his voice was low and hard as he said, “And what do _you_ do, Rogers, sitting in your little office all day, spinning the whole world on your fingers?” 

“I don’t do that.” 

“The people you work for do.” 

James’ (Bucky, he was always Bucky) blinked furiously, his eyes a too-bright blue. Steve wanted nothing more than to reach out again, to take James (Bucky) back home, and never let him go. The force of this longing slammed against his heart, and made him gasp. His hands reached out for James’ face -- to wipe away the blood. 

James flinched away. His voice was choked as he said, “Don’t -- just _don’t_.” A little unsteadily, he got up and stalked to the house. Steve lay back in the grass, the dew soaking into his clothes and his skin. The scent of crushed grass lingered in the air. 

Steve got up too, eventually. His back was beginning to ache. 

The back door was open wide, and the house was dark. He went in, conscious of walking into a trap. He made his way to the kitchen, which was empty, and turned the tap on. He washed the James’ blood from his hands. He got a glass, and filled it up. He drank it, clutching at the porcelain border of the sink. 

He heard a dark chuckle from behind him. “Paperwork, huh?” James was back, glowering at him. “You punch pretty well for paper-pusher.” 

“Bucky, I’m really sorry, let me put some ice on that.” Steve reached out to him -- but James shrugged him off.

“I’ll go,” James said, finally, after the silence between them stretched out painfully thin. “You won’t have to see me again.” 

“I don’t -- Bucky, I don’t want you to go. Tell me what I have to do to help you. To help -- your people.” 

James turned and walked away, and Steve followed behind him. James stopped suddenly, and Steve collided into him. Almost out a force of habit, Steve leaned into him, inhaling the scent of him. He smelled like Steve’s soap, and Steve’s shampoo, of grass and cigarettes, of sweat and blood. James spoke in a quiet voice that Steve leaned closer to hear. “Why? Why would you do this for me? Any of it?” 

“Because I love you.” Once Steve said it, he realized it was the truth, absolute and unimpeachable. “Because you’re the first person I’ve loved in a long, long time.” 

James’s head sank a little, in acknowledgement. “Poor Steve, he loves a dead man.” 

Gently, Steve said, “Poor Bucky, he doesn’t love anyone.” 

James turned to him. His eyes were very bright, and Steve thought suddenly of the night they had met. James had been playing him all that time, he could see that now. He was great actor, he should have been in the pictures. 

James said, “You know that’s not true.” 

“No, it isn’t, is it?” And Steve kissed him, because that was the only thing he could have done. 

They took things slowly, that night. They were conscious of it that this would be the last time. They cut through the dark, without stumbling, or straying. Their bodies were so familiar to each other now, but there was nothing more to say, nothing more to do. 

It was the end of it. 

It was the end of love. 

 

****

* * *

There was a dropbox, dinged and a combative red, near a churchyard, not far from Steve’s old apartment building. It asked for donations, anything you could spare. Steve pushed in a manila envelope into the slit. In the envelope, there were documents, and microfilm too. Everything James had asked for. 


	5. Chapter 5

It was ten minutes to eight, in an anonymous little room somewhere. The questions began promptly. “Do you like being under suspicion, Mr. Rogers? Or should we call you --?” 

“That’s fine. I left the Army a long time ago. And as for your question, I have done nothing to justify this suspicion, Miss --?” 

“You may refer to me as Agent, that’s more than sufficient,” the agent said, grimly. And, “You were seen.” 

“Doing what?” 

“With whom, you shouldn’t say?” 

“Really?” 

“With a well-known Russian operative, who has been know to be active in the United States, and is now in custody. I’ll be honest, Rogers. It doesn’t look good for you.” 

Steve remained impassive. 

The agent consulted the file in front of her. “Looks like your health reports came in. Doesn’t look good, does it? How long does the doctors say you have?” 

“A few more years, if I’m careful.”

“And if you’re not?” 

“Agent, if you have evidence against me, arrest me and let me stand trial. If not, let me go.” 

“You ought to know it’s not that easy.” Agent Carter smiled for the first time in the interview. “You’ve aroused our interest once again, Captain Rogers.” 

“Please,” Steve said wearily, “that was a mistake. I never rose higher than a Corporal.”

  
*** * ***   


All of his telephones were tapped, he knew that. But still, when the one on his nightstand rang, he picked up it. He mumbled sleepily into it. “Hello?”

“Steve?” It was James’s voice. 

Now fully awake, Steve said, “Bucky? Where are you? Bucky!” 

There came a strangled cry from the other end of the line. It went dead.

  


*** * ***   


Agent Carter was not without some compassion, she said, her clipped voice still had traces of British accent. She had been knocked about in the service, and had _settled_. She was terribly good at her job. She said that they could _help_ him, if only he would let them....

Oh, she was lovely, Agent Carter, dark and vividly beautiful. Steve could have imagined himself in love with her, at one time. (He could have asked to draw her, at one time.) But now, he looked at her blankly, not listening a single thing she said. 

Her voice rose, cutting through his fog of depression, “Your friend’s superiors will need reassurance. Perhaps we could set up a prisoner swap...” 

He took a sharp intake of breath and let it out again. Earnestly, he said, “You can’t let him stay back there. He’d be killed.” 

But her eyes were cold. “My heart bleeds. Do you know how many lives you put in danger with those papers you passed along? You must to make it right.” 

He fumbled, speaking clumsily. “The phone call was a bluff. You’re holding him here.” 

“Not in this country, no.” 

“There are other agencies involved?” 

“Oh, Captain,” she looked grimly amused. “There is more at work here than your sordid little love affair.” 

“It wasn’t sordid. Whatever I did, I will take responsibility for it. But you can’t leave him there. He was -- He was one of ours. He was abused so horribly, even before I met him. You can’t let him go back!” 

Gently, she said, “Will you help us? Will you make it right?” 

Bitterly, he said, “Nothing will make this right. But I’ll do what I have to.”

  


*** * ***   


The money was acquired, the prisoner-exchange arranged. Steve gave up everything he had to, every bit of information James had let loose over the years. It wasn’t much, but pieced together, it made something they were looking for.

Steve wasn’t supposed to be there, at the time for the prisoner-exchange. Agent Carter, who had become his unofficial handler, was adamantly against it. 

“One time,” he begged. “How could it hurt? It’s all over between us, it will be when he realizes I’ve given him up.” 

“You go in for emotional torture, don’t you?” 

He blinked. “It’s in my nature.” 

“It certainly is.” She leaned back, suddenly uncertain. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?” 

“I did, when I saw you again. You hadn’t changed a bit. Well, you were nicer, before.” 

“But you’ve changed, Steve.” 

He smiled. “The world does that to you, Peggy.”

She sighed. “That it does. And it’s still Agent, thank you.”

  
*** * ***   


She brought him to the Soviet Embassy.

It was dawn, but the sky was still dove-gray and silvered with clouds. Trench-coated figures converged around the gates of the Embassy. The American prisoner, looking vaguely surprised to be here, had already been hustled off into a waiting car. Steve pushed desperately past the crowd of people. “James! Bucky!” He shouted, but there was no answering reply. 

“Bucky!” He came to the gates themselves, trying desperately to see the familiar figure in the crowd on the other side. There as rapid fire exchange of Russian, and then -- a familiar voice. “Steve!” 

James struggled free and pushed his hands in between the iron bars of the gate. Steve grasped it, squeezing the thin, bloodless hand. The moment between them could have lasted only a few seconds, or hours. In a hoarse whisper that only Steve could hear, James said, “Actually, Rio might be nice this time of year.” 

Steve nodded, coming closer, his heart beating slow in his ribcage. Over the buzz of many other voices, he heard James say, “They haven’t caught us. Not really. They’ll never catch us.” And he looked up, squinting at the grey skies above them. 

Steve’s heart stilled, and calm stole over him. He said, distantly, “We’ll escape, somehow.” 

James looked at him again, his eyes unfocused. “Goodbye, Steve.” 

Steve didn’t say goodbye. James was pulled away by a dark haired man, with sharp angles on his face. The same man that Steve had met in that night, at a different Embassy. James looked back once, before he was pushed through the door, and disappeared. 

Steve stood there, uncertain as what to do, when he heard the click-click of high-heels on pavement. “Let’s go,” said Agent Carter, almost gently. 

Steve nodded, dully, and they went.

  
*** * ***   


Ten years, they told him, was a light sentence, for what he had done. Agent Carter visited him, once. They spoke sparingly of the news. (He heard what happened to the Rosenbergs, a spark of fear shot up his spine.) Rita visited every week, leaving him stacks of magazines, until she stopped coming too. Steve read her obituary in the papers, and felt empty.

Emptier. 

He was out, seven years into his sentence, for good behavior. After his six months of parole were up, he cashed his savings and bought a car. He drove west, not caring about his destination. 

He led a nomadic existence, never staying in one place for long. He did odd jobs to get by. Sometimes he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror -- a tanned, battered face, flyaway hair, blond going grey, a hard mouth and faded blue eyes stared back at him. It was no one he recognized. 

He didn’t think about James at all, though he sometimes did dream about him. Those dreams were all the same, shifting and accusing (he could have saved him, he _could_ have), James, Bucky, his face shifting, masks peeling off to reveal nothing behind it. He dreamed of James smiling and his head held high, and dressed up in uniform, neither American nor Soviet. Those dreams always left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

He tried not to think about James. 

When he had finally reached California, it was ten years on, and he decided to settle down. There weren’t many places he _could_ settle down, but eventually he found a small place in San Francisco. On the weekends, he’d make his way to Fisherman’s Pier, and take a sketchbook with him. 

Drawing, as a skill, had almost dried up in him, and his first few sketches were unsteady and unsure. Eventually, he gained more confidence, and sketched the landscape -- the bay, and the distant, rocky bulk of Alcatraz, the seals on the the rocks below, but mostly the people who threaded through the docks, the sailors and others, tourists with their cameras and locals on errands. 

One day, a woman -- shining blond hair tied back with a blue ribbon -- peeked over his shoulder and said, “Oh, you’re _good_.” 

He looked up and smiled. “May I draw you?” 

She blushed and agreed. A little crowd of people gathered around them, and when he presented Sharon -- that was her name -- with her portrait, someone else took on the seat she had just left, and asked Steve to draw her. And after that, another one. At the end of the day, he had made a little money, and went away with Sharon’s number tucked into the pages of his sketch book. 

“Maybe she wants me to do another portrait of her,” he told his roommate, Sam, a part-time ornithologist, and a full-time social-worker. Sam chuckled and shook his head. 

“You know, you’re pretty dense,” he said, and Steve shrugged, stung. Sam continued, “She _wants_ you.” 

Blankly, Steve asked, “Who would _want_ me?” 

Sam said, musingly, “Who’d want either of us -- an old ex-con and black bird fancier? We’re outcasts, man. Freaks.” 

“I’m not _that_ old.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“And you’d never give up your birds.” 

“Damn right I won’t.” 

 

****

* * * 

The first time Sam kissed him, Steve stumbled back into the door. “What was that?”

Sam looked unimpressed. “What do you think it was?” 

Something steadied, and clicked into place. 

The next time, it was Steve who kissed Sam, who kissed him back, with a little pleased noise. 

 

****

* * * 

He was walking back home, to have dinner with Sam and Sharon, when he heard a car horn blaring directly behind him. Impatiently, he turned towards the sound, saying, “There’s a lot of road, buddy, you don’t need the sidewalk too!”

But through the windows of the car, he saw a familiar face. 

James was there, looking ten years older, with one hand on the steering wheel. He held up the other, waved, and gave Steve the briefest flash of a smile. He was there, and then he was gone. 

Steve raised his hand, and watched the empty road for a long time. Eventually, he bent down, painfully, to retrieve the sketchbook and charcoals that had spilled on the pavement. 

_You fucker!_ Steve shook his head, half-admiring, and half-something else entirely.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is a link to a delightful live-blog by Liliburlero of this fic.](http://lilliburlero.dreamwidth.org/96074.html)


End file.
